


Useless Experimentation and Distraction

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-05-01 17:31:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5214575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock had been acting odd recently and conducting useless experiments.  He'd refused to take cases and lays around the flat listlessly.  John began to wonder just what was wrong when he came home to the oddest of circumstances: Sherlock was curled up beside his bed, clutching a pillow to his chest, sleeping.  Just what was happening to Sherlock Holmes?  And just what was happening to him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Odd Behavior

**Author's Note:**

> I got really bored today and made every single kind of tea I had at the same time (about 16). I thought nothing of this until my dorm neighbors stopped to ask what I was doing. I shrugged and closed the door on them and then realized that was something normally considered odd. So I wrote the beginning of this and just let it run wild. I'm bored and I have no idea what the hell I'm doing. Also, it's quiet hours in the dorm and I can't play violin or do anything remotely fun.

John stared in confusion at the kitchen counter. Gone were the scientific bits and bobs that Sherlock had always let sit around in the way of things. There were no papers or notes to be seen.  He looked all around the kitchen and saw no samples of fungus or dried blood or strange swirling liquids without name.  Except those in the mugs.  Upon every surface in the kitchen, there were still-steaming mugs of what he could only estimate were tea.  Not only mugs: there were water glasses, wine glasses, plastic cups, shot glasses, even _bowls_ filled with teas of every kind. The warm mixture of smells was overpowering and John could not tell if it was jasmine or maybe cinnamon.

            “Sherlock, what is this?”

            Sherlock was pouring the left-over hot water into the sink. “An experiment, John,” he replied.  He leaned back to avoid a puff of steam from hitting his face. He looked tired, a bit worn. His eyes were lightly puffy and red as if he hadn’t slept for days which, knowing him, was a distinct possibility.  He rubbed at one eye and set the kettle back on the stove.

            “My god, what for?” John looked around and tried counting the vessels of tea, giving up around twenty.  He wondered a little bitterly if there was any left in the house. Seeing the open cabinet, he was given the answer he’d hoped against.  He eyed a mug next to him filled with black tea and wondered if it was safe to drink—if Sherlock would even let him drink it.

            Sherlock, as if reading his thoughts, picked up the mug and filled it with milk before pushing it into his chest.  “It’s just tea, John; it’s safe to drink.” His voice was harsh and it sounded like he needed a good cup himself.

            John watched Sherlock walk past him and sit at the table.  He looked down into his cup and hesitated momentarily. He sniffed it once and sipped. It tasted just fine. John turned to Sherlock, confusion still clear on his face.  Sherlock was writing something in a little notepad as he stared into one mug of tea, tasting it, and smelling it.

            John settled into the chair across from him, drinking his tea. “A bit early for experimenting. What’s this all about?”

            Sherlock’s hand stilled on the notepad and he sighed tiredly.  It was not his usual, “it should be obvious,” sort of sigh.  It was more like taking a large breath.  “I’m cataloging our tea: the smells, tastes, and colors.”

            John was startled to get a clear answer, and in such simple words. He fully expected a list of gourmet buzzwords like “aroma” or “bouquet”.  He set his tea down on an empty spot and leaned forward. “Are you alright, Sherlock?”

            Sherlock stirred a cup of tea absently.  “I’m fine, John.”  He set the notebook down and stood up, turning away from him. Then, he walked into the living room and flopped down on the sofa, curling up on it.  He didn’t make another sound.

            John watched him for a moment and wondered what he ought to do or if he should do anything at all.  Then he began a frantic search for his cup of tea, lost in the sea of glasses and mugs. He found it more easily than expected; it was the only one with milk on the table.  He cradled it carefully as if afraid he might lose it again if he set it down, and joined Sherlock in the living room. “Are you sure you’re alright?” He asked.

            Sherlock didn’t respond.

            John waited then sighed.  “Just clean it up for once by the time I get home, alright?  He finished his tea and went about his morning routine, getting ready for his shift at the clinic.

 

It was a slow day: a few runny noses and sore throats. John had plenty of time to himself to think.  Didn’t they have websites and things with all that stuff about tea already in them? He couldn’t understand why Sherlock would have had to go through all the trouble rather than just research it. Besides, it seemed like something the man would’ve already known.  John especially thought about the dangers of going out and buying new tea only to have it wasted when he left it in the cupboard.

            Maybe Sherlock was cataloguing his own opinions on the different kinds of tea. That would at least be reasonable. Still, he could’ve done it a cup at a time.  Then again, he thought, maybe this was a good thing for him.  Sherlock had been acting unusually for the past month. He had started out stomping and declaring his boredom to the world.  That had lasted a full week before dying out.  And now John was left with this…mood or whatever it was.  Sherlock was in a stupor.

            Sometimes Sherlock would act normally.  He would pick up his violin for a bit or sit in his chair with his fingers steepled like usual.  But he stopped answering his phone a week ago.  John had looked at it once and saw a text from Lestrade. Lestrade had even shown up to the flat to ask for Sherlock, but Sherlock had locked himself in his room. John couldn’t understand why he’d refused a perfectly good case and even worried about the consequences. But it had turned out all right for Scotland Yard in the end.

            He doubted Sherlock was depressed or even ill.  He needed sleep, certainly.  John just couldn’t understand what was the matter with him. He shuffled absently through a stack of papers, not really reading them.  Tonight, he decided.  Tonight he would have to ask him what was going on.

            When John’s shift at the clinic ended, he went shopping to pick up new milk, tea, and a few other things he needed.  It was cold out and he hurried home, wondering if it would snow. The flat was silent behind the door as he fumbled for his keys and he wondered if Sherlock had moved from the couch.  The door was unlocked easily and he closed it behind him, locking it and grabbing his bags from the floor. Then, he walked up the stairs and peeked into the living room. Sherlock was gone. In his room, John decided. He then turned to the kitchen and dropped his bags in shock.  The kitchen was spotless.

            It was a miracle the milk hadn’t burst from the fall and he recollected his bags quickly.  John stepped inside and put his things away tentatively, worried that he might find something wrong but unsure what.  He put the milk away first and opened the cabinet to store a new box of tea. He dropped it in surprise when he found the cupboard restocked!  He fumbled for it before it hit the ground, catching it against the counter with his knee and put it beside an identical box.  Sherlock had gone shopping?

            He left the rest of his things on the table and went deeper into the flat. “Sherlock?” He called. There was no answer. He crossed the living room and looked into Sherlock’s bedroom.  He did not often go there; in fact, in the year and a half they’d lived together, he could only remember going in twice.  Nevertheless, he poked his head inside the door. In hushed tones, he called, “Sherlock?  Are you here?” The room was empty.

            John checked the bathroom and the kitchen, and even the closets, but there was no sign of Sherlock.  He was really worried now.  Maybe he’d gotten a text for a new case.  He doubted it, but decided he might call Lestrade.  Sherlock had left his phone on the coffee table for a full week now—no chance of calling him.  John skipped the bottom two steps of the stair and rushed up to grab his phone. He’d left it charging before going out.  When he approached the top step, he stopped.  His bedroom door was open.  He stepped closer to the door and his stomach felt hollow.  In an instant, his mind ran over each possible worst-case scenario. A break-in?  As silently as possible, John edged the door open a little wider, preparing for whatever may lay beyond.

            Sherlock was curled up in front of his nightstand, leaning against the side of his bed, a pillow clutched between his chest and knees.  His head was buried in it and he seemed to be asleep.

            John sighed with relief and hurried toward him.  He knelt down and nudged his shoulder gently, trying to rouse him.  Sherlock groaned in annoyance and buried his face deeper into the pillow before stopping and looking up, bleary-eyed.  “What are you doing up here?” John asked.  “Are you okay?”

            Sherlock’s eyes were heavy and red as he stared up at John.  He squeezed the pillow tighter and shook his head, burying it into the pillow again.  “I’m fine,” came the muffled response.

            “No, you’re not.  You’ve been acting odd lately.  We need to talk.”

            Sherlock ignored him, nudging away.  “I’m fine,” he repeated.

            John tugged gently at the pillow with his free hand and it slipped out of Sherlock’s arm.  “Why are you up here?” He asked again.

            Sherlock hugged his knees.  “It was too loud downstairs,” he said.

            John’s brow furrowed.  It had been quiet when he left and silent when he got home.  What could he have been hearing all day?

            John offered Sherlock a hand up.  “It’s quiet now.  I think you ought to go to bed.  You look tired.”

            Sherlock looked up at him but did not take the hand.  He leaned back against the nightstand. “I’m fine here.”

            “Sherlock, you’re huddled in a corner on a hardwood floor.”

            “I don't want to leave.” His tone was even, but something in it told John the man would not be moving.

            John sighed and rubbed a hand over his face.  He’d never be able to understand what went on in that curly head of his.  “What about when I decide to go to bed?  Will you be sitting there all night?”

            Sherlock rested his head on his arms.  “I’m staying,” he mumbled.

            John sighed.  He really didn't want to sleep on the couch tonight.  “I don’t have a mattress pad or anything you can use…” he trailed.

            Sherlock reached up and tugged the corner of the pillow in John’s hand. “I’ll be fine with just this.” John let go and Sherlock clutched the pillow again, leaning once more against the bed.  He closed his eyes.

            John hesitated in front of him before standing up.  He watched him over his shoulder as he went to his door.  There, he stopped with a hand on the knob and turned around.  “I’ll be back up in a few hours for bed,” he said.  “I’ll make some noise when I brush my teeth and all, you know.”  Sherlock didn't answer.  “Will you at least come down for dinner?”

            Sherlock turned and tucked in against the side of the bed.  “Goodnight, John,” was all he said.

John took his time washing up after dinner. Sherlock hadn’t come down at all and John got to wondering if he really meant to stay in his room all night. It was dead quiet downstairs; he couldn’t see what the problem was.  Why did Sherlock need to stay in his room?  For a split second he actually thought that Sherlock might be lonely.  The thought was almost laughable until his felt a slight twist in his stomach. Could he be?  John tried to remember if the pillow he’d been clutching was his own or not.  He paused, hands covered in suds, and looked upstairs.  He’d find out soon enough.

            When he was finished, John lingered at the bottom of the staircase. It was silly to be intimidated; he was just going upstairs to go to sleep in his own room.  Only now, Sherlock was there.  Why did that detail bother him?  He’d slept on the sofa or in his chair plenty of times with Sherlock in the room.  It wasn’t like it was any different.

            Only it was.  They didn’t often go into each other’s rooms.  They certainly didn’t sleep in them either.  It was a matter of principle.  It was a sense of boundary.  They didn’t often breach those kinds of boundaries.

            John looked up toward his door with a hand on the rail.  He let go of it and turned to Sherlock’s room. He walked inside and marched right up to his bed, grabbing the blanket off the top.  He did his best not to let it drag on the floor as he ascended the stairs.  The door was still open as he left it and Sherlock was still curled up on the floor, pillow in his arms.  John could now see that it was one of his.  He did his best to ignore the flutter in his chest at that realization.

            Carefully, trying not to wake him, John leaned in and wrapped Sherlock in the blanket.  As careful as he’d been, Sherlock opened his eyes.  He did not at all seem surprised to see John so close to him, nor did he seem to care.  John paused in his efforts to stare back, wondering if Sherlock was even really awake. He felt a sudden rush of warmth in his face when he realized how close they were and quickly tucked the blanket around him and stood up again.

            Sherlock tugged the blanket around himself better.  “Thank you,” he said.

            Sherlock was even showing gratitude now?  John shook his head in disbelief.  This was too much for one day.  “I’m going to get ready for bed.  I’ll try not to trip over you in the dark.”  John tiptoed around him and grabbed his night things off the bed, making his way to the bathroom.  He washed up quickly enough and changed inside, not feeling comfortable enough to change with Sherlock sitting there.

            When he came out again, Sherlock’s eyes were closed.  He’d almost stumbled over him in trying to get to his side of the bed.  That proved to be another problem: Sherlock was leaning against the side where he slept. He didn’t want to have to sleep so close to him.  He felt it would be awkward or too intimate.  Sherlock would probably laugh at him and shrug it off if he said anything. So John just walked around and slipped into the other side of the bed.

            It was uncomfortable the first ten minutes.  The usual comfortable dip in the bed was on the wrong side of him and the sheets were messed up and bunchy.  He didn’t like to lie on his left side and the light from the window was too much facing as he was.  He looked over his shoulder.  Sherlock seemed to be sleeping peacefully across the way.  John paused, wondering if it would be all right. Sherlock was asleep and he didn’t think he would mind.  Something had to be done if he wanted any sleep himself.

            John scooted over in bed back to his own side.  Stubbornly, he tried to sleep on his back, hands at his sides. It felt ridged and unwelcome. He sighed and finally turned on his right side, hugging his pillow comfortably.  He closed his eyes to go to sleep.

            In that hazy state between being asleep and awake, he thought he heard a rustling beside him.  Then, he felt a warm hand against his, squeezing gently.  He ignored it and let himself drift off again.

            In the morning, Sherlock was gone.


	2. Knitting and Splitting Ties

John picked up his pillow and put it back on his side of the bed.  He was surprised to find it had been resting on a nice, folded blanket.  Sherlock had been considerate.  With still more confusion, John made his bed and went to take a shower.  He still had an hour before it was time to get to work.

            Clean and dressed, John made his way downstairs, blanket in hand. There he found Sherlock lying on the sofa, a book in his hand.  He draped the blanket over the back of the sofa and took a look at the cover. “Taking up knitting, are you?”

            Sherlock lowered the book and looked up at him.  “A woman in line was prattling on about it at the check-out yesterday.  I decided to give it a go.”

            “What are you planning on making?” John asked, leaning against the back cushion. He smiled, surprised to see that Sherlock was getting into what most people would consider a normal hobby.

            “I don’t know yet.  I’ll figure it out once I’ve finished reading.”  He raised the book again and turned to the next page.  John grinned; he got a bit of a thrill imagining Sherlock, the genius detective, doing something as simple as knitting. Sherlock looked over the book. “Don’t you have work or something? It’s Wednesday.”

            “Thursday, actually.  I’ve still got time for breakfast.  Have you eaten yet?”

            “No.”

            John rolled his eyes and headed toward the kitchen.  At least Sherlock seemed to be in a better mood. “Have you started a new case?” He asked, reaching up for the tea.

            “No,” Sherlock answered.  John heard a page flip.

            “It’s been a while since the last one, hasn’t it?” He filled the kettle and turned on the stove.  “I thought you said you were bored.”

            “I was.  You know, there’ll come a time when I eventually do retire and won't be working cases anymore. I’ve got to learn to handle that eventuality, haven’t I?”

            That caught John off guard.  He hadn’t really thought about it, but Sherlock was right.  John didn’t really know what Sherlock would do when he was old.  It was just always in the back of his mind that Sherlock would always be the same: solving impossible crimes, chasing criminals down dark alleyways.  For some reason, he never really thought he’d grow old. It was ridiculous, he knew, but the thought had just never occurred to him.

            “Is that why you’ve been sitting around like this all month? To simulate what retirement will be like?”  He thought it was much too early to be thinking about that.  Well, aside from saving up for it.

            “No. It’s just one point of many. I’ve decided I don’t want to work for a while.”  He said that as if it answered all of John’s questions.

            “Why?”

            Sherlock didn’t answer.

            John decided he wouldn’t be getting anything out of him and turned back to the stove.  “I’m making an egg,” he said.  “You’ll have one too. I want it gone before I leave for work.”

            As he got to work on cracking the eggs and heating the pan, Sherlock continued reading.  He was nearly finished when John got around to plating breakfast.  Sherlock looked up and closed his book as John approached the sofa.  John handed him a plate and sat beside him on the couch.  “Here you are.  Now eat.  I’ve got ten minutes to finish this and that means you do too.”

            Sherlock actually picked up his fork and began eating without complaint and John nearly choked on his tea.  He wanted to ask just what the hell had gotten into him lately but was afraid bringing attention to it would only break apart whatever miracle had taken place. Still, he couldn’t help himself. “What on earth has gotten into you lately?”

            Sherlock looked at him out of the corner of his eye and swallowed a bite. “What exactly are you referring to?  I’ve been doing many things lately.”

            “You’re actually cleaning up when I ask you to, you’re sleeping without being told, and you’re eating!  I want to know just who’s hypnotized you or blackmailed you into being a healthy human being.”

            “Ah.” Sherlock turned back to his breakfast and ate a few more bites. Then, he set his plate on his lap and leaned back against the sofa, staring at a spot on the opposite wall. “For a start, there’s no case. If it’s not a distraction, I might as well eat.  It may be a vessel, but a body still needs proper care.  Even I know that, John.”  He took up another bit of egg on his fork and stared at it as if it might disappear if he looked away.  “I know I’ve always been a mess.  I don’t enjoy cleaning up after myself, but I’ve got to learn. I’ll have to do it myself someday, learn to take care of myself.”

            John squinted at him.  “What do you mean?”

            Sherlock looked at him and then finished his egg without hurry. “John, would you mind picking up some yarn for me after work today?  I’ve left some bills on the table for you with a list of what I want.”

            “You’re avoiding the question.”

            “No, I’m just ignoring it.  Will you buy the yarn?”

            “I might if you answer the question,” he prodded.

            “Well you can just forget about it then!” He shouted, startling John as he launched himself off the couch. “I’m not going to say it and that’s that!  I’ll go out myself.” He walked around the edge of the couch the long way, avoid John physically.

            “Wait—Sherlock?” John set aside his plate and rushed after Sherlock as he ducked into the kitchen. There, Sherlock reached to pick up an envelope from the table but John stopped him, grabbing his hand before he could take it.  “It’s fine Sherlock; I’ll pick up some yarn.  Come on, just come back and sit down.”

            Sherlock stood there, staring down at him.  In his face, John could see frustration and conflict that he didn’t understand. But he relented and let John take him back to the couch.

            “Will you please just put me at ease and tell me what’s wrong, Sherlock?  You’ve been acting weird lately and I’m honestly beginning to worry.  I could understand you being frustrated about a case or acting crazy as part of some experiment or another, but this is all new territory for me.  Now, I’m not good at this sort of thing, but we need to talk.  Is there anything you’d be willing to explain to me at all? ”

            Sherlock looked at him, opened his mouth, and closed it again.  He hesitated a moment and shook his head.  “Not…just now.  I’m trying to do something for myself.  It’ll benefit you too.  But for now, I’d much rather not.”

            “Is it something you’re afraid to tell me?” John wondered if there really could be anything Sherlock was uncomfortable telling him.  Sure, Sherlock wasn’t an open or honest person, but to not be comfortable speaking with him was something John found hard to imagine.

            “No!  It’s not—!  I just—!” Sherlock groaned and buried his head in his knees, scratching his head in frustration.  Sherlock huffed and looked up at the ceiling, biting his lips.  He finally seemed to be formulating a point. “You’re _not_ always going to be here to take care of me, John,” he said.  “I need to learn to be a functioning adult on my own.”

            John blinked. A startled, “Oh,” was all he could manage.  He hadn’t thought about that either.  It was true though; one day, John would eventually find someone and settle down. It’s not as if they’d been planning to live together forever.  But somehow it had never occurred to him that he’d leave the flat and move out. It had long ago become more than just a living space: it had become his home.

            “That was all,” Sherlock said.

            The silence stretched between them.  John stared at the wall across the way.  He wondered just how long Sherlock had been thinking about this.  Did it mean that he cared if John went away? Wasn’t that crossing the line into sentiment?  He looked at Sherlock and felt a twist in his stomach.  He wished he could know just what the man was thinking.

            Sherlock looked up at the ceiling.  “You’re late for work,” he said.

            John looked at his watch and gasped.  In a hurry, he dumped the dishes into the sink and grabbed his coat off the hanger. On his way out, he stopped to grab the envelope off the table.  Then, in a rush, he skipped most of the steps and hurried out the door and off to the waking streets of London.

 

When John returned that evening, Sherlock was on the couch again.  John set the bag of yarn down in the kitchen and walked over to the sink, ready to wash the dishes from breakfast.  He was surprised to find the sink was empty. So Sherlock had done the dishes then.  He also noticed that the pan was gone from the stovetop.  He’d washed that as well.  That ought to have made him smile, but he frowned.  It only reminded him of their conversation that morning. Soon, Sherlock wouldn’t need him for anything.  He felt another twist in his stomach.  This was good for him, he knew, but the thought left him feeling…unwanted.

            He pushed the thought out of his head. That was crossing another boundary.  He shouldn’t be thinking about Sherlock this way.  He didn’t think of him that way.  He didn’t want a relationship with him.  He couldn’t let himself, even if it didn’t confuse him like this. Sherlock had explicitly told him that very morning that there was no future with them together. He’d be gone.

            John picked up the bag and tossed it at Sherlock who caught it with one hand.  “I got the yarn you wanted.  The change is in the bag.”  He stopped and took a step back to look at him. “Is that my jumper?”

            Sherlock set the bag on the sofa beside him.  Indeed, John’s jumper was rumpled up in his lap.  “I needed a reference piece for cable knitting.  There are quite a lot of different knitting techniques on this one.  I…hope you don’t mind.”  He rubbed the edge of the collar uncertainly.

            John tilted his head slightly. “No, I don’t mind, I suppose. Just try not to mess it up or anything.”  He turned back to go upstairs when a thought occurred to him.  “Did you root through my closet for that?”

            “I didn’t root. I knew where it was already. I promise I didn’t mess anything up.”

            John almost told him off for going in his room, but he stopped.  After the previous night, he didn’t want to give Sherlock the impression he wasn’t allowed there.  In fact, he’d kind of enjoyed it.  It was a private moment.  The fact that Sherlock felt comfortable enough to stay with him set a flutter of pride in his chest.  No, no, he had to ignore it.  Things were changing, he knew.

            But if Sherlock was so insistent on distancing himself, why had he come to his room in the first place?

            John swallowed and cleared his throat.  He felt Sherlock staring at the back of his head.  “Is something wrong?” He heard him ask.

            “No, no, I’m just fine. I’m a bit tired though. Think I’ll just have myself a nap. See you for dinner?” He didn’t wait for a response as he took to the stairs.  He left Sherlock staring up after him with his jumper in hand and a bag of yarn beside him.

 

            John woke up feeling like shit.  He probably should’ve changed into pyjamas instead of sleeping in his day clothes. He looked with blurry vision at the clock beside his bed.  It was nearly seven: almost dinnertime.  He groaned and rolled back over.  He felt more tired than before he’d taken the nap. Even so, he pulled himself upright in bed.  Lazily, he stretched himself, slouching back into a position of little effort.  It was then he heard a knock at his door. “Come in,” he mumbled drowsily.

            Sherlock opened the door and stepped inside.  “I thought you’d like to come down for dinner.”

            John took a minute to register the statement.  “What?”

            “I ordered dinner.”

            John woke up a little more. “You ordered dinner?”

            “Angelo’s. We had Thai last time.”

            John slipped off the side of the bed and rubbed his eyes.  “Yeah.  I’ll be down in a second.  Let me just wash up first.”

            Sherlock nodded and closed the door.

            John washed quickly and walked downstairs.  Sure enough, there were two take-away boxes on the kitchen table.  Sherlock’s looked half-eaten already. John felt a small sense of pride at the change.

            “I got you spaghetti,” Sherlock said.  “There’s a fork and all beside it.  Eat where you like; I’m going back to the couch.”  Sherlock folded his box closed and put the leftovers in the fridge. True to his word, he flopped himself back on the couch and picked up his knitting.  John craned his neck to take a peek as he went to the table.  He was surprised to see how far along he’d gotten.  It looked like he already had half a scarf made.

            The scarf was a light cream color like John’s jumper.  It had cables running down both sides and a comfy looking ribbed knit. Where Sherlock had changed yarns, there were patterned bits on the end in a dark navy blue and red. The coloring reminded John of his Christmas sweater.  He’d have to bring that out soon now that the weather was growing colder.

            In the kitchen, John grabbed his take-out box and fork and turned back into the living room. He sat in his chair, watching Sherlock as he knitted.  He took a large mouthful of pasta, actually very hungry.  “What’s that for?” He asked, his mouth still a bit full.

            “Just to try it,” Sherlock said.  “It’s actually a bit nice.  Relaxing, I guess. I read up on knitting earlier today. The repetitive motion is supposed to be therapeutic.”

            “Do you thing you’ll make a hobby of it?” John asked.

            Sherlock hummed. “No, I don’t think so. It was nice to try it out, but I believe it’s best kept as a one-time experiment.”

            John swallowed another bite. “Would you really call it an experiment? I mean, you aren’t really collecting any data, are you?”

            “It’s an experiment in the way an ordinary person might use the word.  I’ve tried something knew.  A bit of a useless experiment in that sentiment, but a good distraction.”

            “A distraction from what?”

            Sherlock looked at him out of the corner of his eye, his hands stopped moving an instant. He picked up again as if he’d never stopped.  “Nothing,” he said. “Just in general. That’s what hobbies are for, right?  To keep people busy?”

            John considered it and nodded in agreement.  “I guess so.” They spent the rest of the meal in silence.  John ate, watching Sherlock knit and it all felt very domestic.  Even when John had finished and washed his fork, tossing the box, he stayed to watch Sherlock work a while after.  Only when he began to drowse in his chair did he finally give in and decide to head up to bed.

            He stood and stretched his arms up.  “Goodnight,” he said and headed toward the stairs.  He stopped at the bottom and looked back.  “Will you be…um…sleeping in your room this time?” He didn’t know how to ask if Sherlock would be joining him.  Not that he thought the idea of sleeping curled on the floor by his bed as being very comfortable.

            “Yes,” Sherlock replied.

            John couldn’t help feeling slightly disappointed.  “Well, goodnight then.  I’ll see you in the morning.”

            “Goodnight, John.” It was a rare response and John felt it was wrong.  It felt as if Sherlock was saying goodbye instead.  No, that would be far in the future.  Tonight, it just meant goodnight.

            John dressed for bed and climbed in.  He didn’t feel much like brushing his teeth that night.  He grabbed his other pillow and hugged it, closing his eyes. Suddenly, he opened them again. The pillow no longer smelled like him.  It smelled like Sherlock.  He held it tighter and breathed the scent in deeper.  This whole day had left him feeling lonely.  How could so much change in less than forty-eight hours?

            He breathed into the pillow gently, letting the scent lull him to sleep.  It was a comfortable smell.  It smelled like home.  In that moment, John realized that living with Sherlock was what had made the flat feel like home.  He felt the now familiar twist in his stomach at that thought.  He didn’t want to leave.  Not now, and certainly not in the future. Not if he couldn’t take Sherlock with him.

            He suppressed the thought as best he could.  He would never say anything.  He couldn’t. All he could do was ride out their time together for as long as he could.  That night, in the quiet darkness, he let himself do what he hadn’t done since his deployment: John cried to himself silently until sleep took everything away.

 

Sometime in the middle of the night, John thought he heard his door opening.  He also heard the soft pad of feet across the floor. A year ago, that kind of a noise would make him bolt awake and land on his feet, but now he was at ease with his surroundings.  There was a soft shuffling on his bedside table as if things were being stacked together. Then, he felt something like a caress on his arm.  A hand came to rest at his wrist, lingering for a minute or two.  It felt warm and comforting.  Then, the hand was gone and the sound of retreating footsteps was left in its wake.  John opened his eyes slightly to see a tall figure retreat into the hall and close the door. Then, he closed his eyes again and went back to sleep.


	3. Home Alone

The next morning, John woke up cold. Oh no.  He turned over and opened one eye to look out the window.  It was snowing hard. He groaned and rolled back over, pulling his covers up over his head.  He did not want to go to work in that weather.  He tried to remember what day it was. Sherlock had said Wednesday yesterday; was it Thursday today?  No, he remembered.  It was Friday. He grinned victoriously to himself.  Karen took his shift on Fridays.  He stretched out on his bed and lay with his arms over his head.  He didn’t have work until Monday!

            John sat up in bed.  The first thing he wanted to do was build a nice fire downstairs and make himself a cup of tea and have a nice warm breakfast.  Since it was cold out, maybe Mrs. Hudson had made them biscuits. He wondered if he might even be able to convince Sherlock to play the violin for him.  That thought was enough to get him out of bed. He put on a pair of slippers and went to brush his teeth and change.

            When he came back out of the bathroom, he noticed a few things had been moved on his nightstand.  His books and notes had been stacked neatly to one side to make room for a scarf. He picked it up and unfolded it: it was the scarf that Sherlock had been knitting last night.  He took a breath of admiration.  Sherlock had knitted it for him.

            John traced his thumb along the cables of the scarf.  It looked very much like the ones on his jumper. He smiled affectionately. Really, it had come to him at the perfect time.  It was cold out and would only continue to get colder.  He wrapped it experimentally around his neck.  It was soft and warm.  It smelled like Sherlock.  John descended the stairs feeling the most cheerful he’d been in the last few days.  He’d have to ask Sherlock for his jumper again when they’d had breakfast.

            “Hey, Sherlock,” he called.  “I just wanted to thank you for the scarf you left me.  When did you finish kni–” He froze on the third step from the bottom.  “What are…?”

            Sherlock turned around to face him.  He had on his coat and scarf and was just pulling on his second glove. Beside him, on the floor, was an overnight suitcase.  “Good morning, John,” he said.

            John took another step down, still staring at the suitcase. “Are you going somewhere?” He was holding a little too tightly to the railing.

            “Mycroft asked to see me.  Wants me to spend the night back home.”  He ought to have sounded annoyed.  He _should_ sound annoyed.  But it was so blunt and factual, as if he didn’t mind one way or another.

            “Back home…as in your parents’ home?”

            Sherlock nodded.

            “Why?”

            Sherlock adjusted his collar—at least that hadn’t changed.  “He thought it would be a good idea to have a family weekend together.  I’ve nothing better to do.  Besides, my parents have been calling to see me recently, trying to guilt-trip me into coming up to visit them.” He shrugged and smiled at John.  “I guess it worked.”

            John wanted to object.  A family weekend for the thrill of it?  Agreeing with Mycroft?  This was plain mad! He wanted to offer to have his head examined.  Did Sherlock hit his head one day and develop a personality disorder?  Did he start growing a brain tumor overnight? Why was he leaving?

            “Will you be gone all weekend then?” He tried not to sound as pathetic as he felt.

            Sherlock lifted his head slightly.  “Only if Mycroft forces me,” he said.  He picked up his case and walked to the stairs leading out of the flat. John followed him.

            “Well, have a good time?” He said, uncertain.  He didn’t know what to think about it, really.  “Try to stay indoors; it’s getting cold out. We’re getting more people with colds at the clinic now.” Great, he was getting medical.

            Sherlock set his case down and turned around.  “I’ll be fine, John,” he assured him.  He stopped and looked down at John’s neck; he noted that he was wearing the scarf.  A small smile grew on his face as he looked and he reached his hands up to adjust it.  “It looks nice,” he said softly.

            John felt that old fluttering in his chest again.  When Sherlock let go, he let a hand brush over his shoulder.  How did that feel familiar?  John watched as Sherlock picked up his case and opened the door to the flat.  “I’ll see you Sunday night,” he promised.

            John waved, staring after him.  “See you Sunday,” he repeated.

 

John sat around the flat all day in a blur. He didn’t watch his shows. He didn’t check his email. He didn’t have anything new to put on his blog.  Hell, even if he did try to type anything up, it would just be to tell people that Sherlock was behaving like a human.  He wondered how many eyes would roll at that.

            Mrs. Hudson came up around noon to have tea with him.  As he thought, she’d made a plateful of biscuits for them.  As they sat at the kitchen table, she looked around, admiring the cleanliness of the kitchen. “It feels so much bigger now without all of the mess.  Is Sherlock off on a case then?  Give you time to fix it all up?”

            John looked up from his tea.  He’d been eating in silence before then.  “Ah, no.  No, he cleaned it up himself.”  He crumpled his napkin and scooted it off to the side.  “He’s gone to visit his family for the weekend though.”

            “Did he now?  Well that’s just lovely!  Finally helping out then too?” She smiled like a proud mother and helped herself to a biscuit. “I’ll have to make him something special when he gets back; reward him for getting into some good habits.”

            “He said he’ll be back Sunday night.”

            Mrs. Hudson looked at him with a sympathetic face.  “You say that like it’s a month away.”

            John looked up from his tea, startled.  “No, it’s just a few days.  It’s not as if it were a big deal.  He goes off all the time.  He just told us for once.”  He looked back down at his tea, feeling the warm steam against his face.  It was true: Sherlock often left the flat without saying a word in the past.  Sometimes he’d be away for a whole week without any word and John didn’t know if he was coming back.  But those times had all been for cases.  Now he was only away for a few days and John knew where he was.  Why was it harder?

            “You miss him when he’s gone.  I know you do.”  John hesitated, and then nodded.  She was right. “You should tell him about it one day.”

            “Don’t go there.  We’re not—”

            “You are.  You just won’t admit it to each other.  You’re too scared and he’s too Sherlock.”  She sipped her tea sternly.  “Don’t you tell me I’m wrong, dear.  I’m old; I know things.  And I’m much too old to waste time the way to two do.”  She set down her cup and smiled.  “I’ll see you later, love.”

            As she walked her slow way to the flat door, she stopped and turned around. “By the way, that’s a lovely scarf you’ve got on.  Cables are hard to knit for me.  Did your mother send it?”

            John shook his head.

            Mrs. Hudson smiled.  “You boys,” she mumbled, shaking her head.  With that last note, she walked down the stairs and made her way home.

 

John Watson did not pine.  He repeated this to himself as he sat in a bunch in Sherlock’s chair.  It was soft and comfortable and he had his face buried in his scarf.  The scent had nearly gone after wearing it all day, but it was still there.  John Hamish Watson did not pine.  But, he did maybe sulk.

            It was hard to avoid thinking about Sherlock when he had nothing else to do. He almost wished he had work to distract himself.  Really, work _was_ his hobby.  He looked down at the coffee table.  The knitting book was still there.  He picked it up and opened it.  After reading the first page, he decided it didn’t look so hard.  After reading the second, he decided it was the greatest puzzle in all the world.  He grimaced and skimmed the rest.  Really, how had Sherlock learned to do it so quickly?

            At the back of the book, he saw an advertisement for different knitting tools and projects.  One in particular caught his eye.  It was a knitting loom for beginners.  He got up from the chair and jogged to his desk, grabbing a pen and notepad and hurrying back.  He wrote down the supplies he needed, copying them out of the book.  Then, he closed the book and set it back on the table. He had a project for the weekend.

 

John Watson was no craft-store veteran. He’d only ducked in yesterday to find Sherlock’s yarn.  Now he took the time to wander and look around.  He found the knitting aisle easily as he’d already been there once. There was plenty of yarn of every kind; he was at a loss for which to get.

            He decided to stick with the brand Sherlock had used.  The scarf he’d made was comfy and warm; he might as well stick with what he knew.  He picked out a deep royal blue.  It was Sherlock’s color, right?  But what to make?

            Sherlock already had a scarf so that was out of the question.  He doubted he’d be able to knit a throw in a month, let alone a single weekend.  He’d always found knitted hats ridiculous and itchy so there was another tosser.  Maybe socks?

            John sighed, looking at the different yarn, trying to decide. Socks, from what he’d seen in the book, were much too difficult for a beginner like himself.  At least, he couldn’t wrap his head around knitting. He decided to just do a plain scarf. Maybe Sherlock would wear it, maybe he wouldn’t, but it was his best shot at actually making something good. John snatched up a knitting loom and two yarns—blue and white—and marched up to the checkout. He’d have to practice a lot before he could really get it right.

            Back home, John had read and reread the knitting guide that came with his loom four times now. He felt confident enough to try casting on.  He’d keep it simple: one of the little row things over two.  He got as far as wrapping the second row when he slipped and the yarn unraveled off the loom.  He growled in frustration and tried again.  This time he got all the way to the third row.  He took the little needle thing and pulled his first stitch over. “Not bad,” he mumbled. He kept picking up his stitches until he reached the end.  Maybe he could do this.

            About ten rows into it, he got bored.  He turned on the television to see if it would help.  It added some extra background noise, but the channel wasn’t anything interesting. He wondered if this is what Sherlock felt all the time.  In that case, he could understand his frustration.  He changed the channel.  The BBC was showing a concert.  He paused and put down the remote.  It was a symphony orchestra.  The music settled him again and he picked up his knitting. After twenty rows, he switched yarn.

            He kept on knitting for another hour until the concert had finished.  A drama was coming on next and he shut it off.  Instead, he turned on his laptop.  He was about to look up some classical recordings online when he remembered something.  He exited out the internet browser and opened up a recording program on his computer.  He’d saved a few recordings over the past year and a half of Sherlock playing violin. He wasn’t really sure if Sherlock knew about it or not, but he hadn’t stopped him.

            He opened one of the older files and hit play.  The audio was a bit flat, but he didn’t mind.  He sat in Sherlock’s chair and resumed his knitting.  It felt nice.  He liked just sitting and listening to Sherlock play whether he was reading or updating his blog.  With the fire going, everything felt nice and cozy.  The only thing missing was the presence of the man himself.

            John sighed. What was three days? The first was almost over anyway.


	4. Late Night Greeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock leaves and returns.

Sherlock picked up his bag as he waved the cabbie away and stood looking up at the front steps of the Holmes Manor.  Waiting for him at the top of the landing was a man with reddish hair in a grey suit.  The man was looking down at him with impatience evident in the wrinkle of his brow.  “I’d rather you were here an hour ago, brother dear,” Mycroft said.

           “I don’t control London’s traffic, brother mine.”  Sherlock’s reply was equally as mocking, but noticeably less so than in the recent past.  He joined Mycroft and together they went inside.

           Mycroft walked two paces ahead of Sherlock as they went.  “So,” he began.  “Tea cataloging?  Cable knitting?  Would it be presumptuous to ask how many times you smelled his jumper while you borrowed it?  Or too presumptuous to assume you still have it in that bag you carry?”  He eyed the bag in Sherlock’s right hand pointedly, apprehension edging into his casual demeanor.  He needed no reply.

           Sherlock ignored him.  “Where are they?” he asked.

           “The sitting room.  They want to have us all together for lunch when you’ve finished unpacking.”  Mycroft turned them down a hallway.  “I must say, I’m very pleased with your behaviour as of late.  Would I be right in predicting a growing trend in the future?”

           “Perhaps not if you continue your incessant prattling.”  Sherlock stopped without prompt in front of one of the doors at the end of the hall.  “I know we both wish to see the results of this weekend go accordingly, but must I stay through Sunday?” There might have been the slightest bit of a plea hidden in his voice, but Mycroft was unsure.

           “Three days, Sherlock.  We agreed.  After all, this was your idea.”

           Sherlock opened the door to his old room and chucked his bag inside.  He groaned and flopped onto the bed, burying his face in the sheets.  He was already beginning to regret his experiment, but he had to go through with it.  He had to.  He rolled over and looked up at the ceiling.  He felt the bed sink at the end as Mycroft sat beside him.

           “What do you plan to do when you return to Baker Street?”

           Sherlock sat up on his elbows and stared.  In that moment, his brother had almost sounded...concerned.  He thought about it.  “I have two ideas,” he said.

           “Go on,” Mycroft prompted.

           Sherlock looked sideways.  “The first: I have this...this need.  To be beside him as soon and as long as possible.  Don’t mock me; I can feel you grinning.   I can’t help the feeling, Mycroft.”

            "I’m not mocking you.  Promise.”  He smiled at him and it seemed almost sincere.  “Your second?”

           “The second is: I do nothing.  At least not yet.  Avoid him for a few days and stretch out the effect of this weekend's separation.  I doubt he would, but I might wait for him to make some move or another. I’m afraid to move first.”  He chuffed.  “Ridiculous, isn’t it?  I’m the world’s greatest detective and yet I can’t deduce the heart of the man I’ve known longest.”

           Mycroft nodded.  “It’ll work itself out.  You know, mother was especially excited when I told her you were coming down.  Be prepared to be fed more than you’re used to: she’s under the impression that you’re starving yourself.”

           Sherlock lifted his chin up.  “I’ve gained six pounds since the start of this year.”

           Mycroft chuckled and stood.  “So that’s where mine went.  He takes good care of you, that doctor.” As he walked out the door, he turned around to say, “I’ll see you in the dining room.”

           Sherlock nodded.  “See you soon.”

 

Saturday went by unbearably slowly.  John sat lethargically on the couch, spread out over it.  He wondered if he were dying.  There wasn’t a thing to do in the flat and he was incredibly, undeniably, mind-numbingly bored.  In his hands was the finished scarf.  He’d stayed up the whole night to finish it, much too focused to notice as the hours ticked away on the clock.  Now he’d spent the day in and out of sleep to make up for it.  He was absently counting the rows of blue and white, his mind wandering.

           John wondered what Sherlock was doing.  He’d been gone a whole day and a half now.  Only a day and a half?  Dear God in heaven, he was being ridiculous; pining for that idiot.  Not just pining.  John was also worrying about him at the same time.  He felt as though he needed to be there to make sure he didn’t do anything stupid to get himself into trouble.  This past month he’d been waiting for Sherlock to snap.  He figured that eventually this behaviour of his would get the better of him.  Maybe he’d start to forget to eat again or perhaps he’d go chasing a dangerous case without John as his backup.  For God’s sake, who knew what Sherlock would do?  He always worried about him when he left.

           Not only this weekend—Sherlock was really preparing himself to leave.

           When that thought came into his head, John could only come to one conclusion: it might be time to start preparing himself for that eventuality as well.

           Saturday was slow.  John made himself do things.  He checked his email and updated his blog, for once not mentioning Sherlock except in casual passing.  He called Harry and caught up: she was well, hoped he was too, terrible weather, try to keep warm, no she wasn’t drinking, yes still single, lovely catching up, please call again, good-bye.  It was a quick conversation and neither of them really had wanted to have it.

           He cooked and ate.  He washed dishes.  He watched mindless television until it grew late and went up to bed.  When time came, he went upstairs and changed.  As he brushed his teeth, staring at himself in the mirror, he came to another realization: this is exactly what his life had been since he’d returned from the war.

           John realized just how dull his life had been before meeting Sherlock.  It worried him to learn how dependant he’d become.  If Sherlock never came back this is exactly what his life would continue to be.  He tried to push the thought out of his mind as he crawled into bed.  If he didn’t do it right away, it would eat up at him the rest of the night.  Already he felt it was going to be a long night.

 

Sherlock sat in his room after dinner, avoiding his family.  It had all been rather pleasant until evening came on.  Two days trapped with his family in the manor with nothing to do was driving him up the walls.  He lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling.  He wanted to go home.   _ Now. _  He could feel his very skin crawling in anticipation.  He wondered if he’d even be able to wait when he returned.  Just imagining John walking casually about the flat in front of him, behind him, past him, was driving him insane.  After evaluating his own feelings for the man for a full month he’d come to his own conclusion.

           Sherlock Holmes was in love with John Watson.

           He closed his eyes and visualized the flat.  John was sitting in his chair, back turned to him.  Sherlock had just opened the door to the flat.  Now, he closed it.  When John heard the sound of the door shutting, he leapt from his seat to greet him.  He’d missed him terribly.  Sherlock could just imagine how he’d love to wrap John in his arms.  He did so, clutching John tightly against himself.  They knelt there behind the door, Sherlock threading his hands through John’s short, pale hair.  God, he wanted to take him in his arms and kiss him until neither of them could breathe.

           Sherlock opened his eyes again.  This weekend was killing him.  His parents still insisted he stay through till Sunday night.  His mother wanted to make one more dinner for him before she sent him off.  It would be late at night when he returned.  His father insisted he leave in the morning on Monday, but he couldn’t wait that long.  He would leave the moment dinner was cleared from the table.

           Beside him on the bed was John’s jumper.  Mycroft had been right; he had taken it.  He pulled it across his chest to his face and took a deep breath.  The scent was not as strong after keeping it in his bag for so long, but it was enough to help.  He wished it were stronger.  If he had to make the comparison, he’d swear it reminded him of his old addiction.  With heroin and with John, the more he had of it, the more he wanted it.  He needed a fix desperately.

           “One more day,” he reminded himself.  “Just one more day.”

 

Finally, it was Sunday evening.  No, not finally—it was only that it was Sunday.  John looked up at the clock on the wall.  He’d just had his dinner and washed up.  He wasn’t waiting, he told himself.  He wasn’t a good liar.  He checked his watch.  In his head he was compiling a list of questions to ask Sherlock about his weekend holiday.  He had almost ten now.  He just needed enough to keep the man up late into the night.  All he wanted was to have a few hours with him when he got home.  All he needed was to have his presence in their home again, to have his voice fill the room.

           He’d hated having so much time to himself.  During Sherlock’s worst moods it might’ve been welcome, but now it was a bother.  With so much time to himself, he’d let his mind wander.  And did it ever wander.  It wandered into dangerous territory: the realm of fantasy.  Sometimes, Sherlock would burst through the flat door, rush across the room, and push John against the couch, snogging him roughly, holding him down.  Other times, like an old romance film, John would awaken to the sound of Sherlock’s violin.  He’d walk down the stairs in a trance and Sherlock would turn away from the window to watch him as he played.  Only when the song was done would he take him in his arms.  And then John would push him down in his chair and snog him mindlessly.  That ending happened quite a bit.

           He shook himself, waking himself from his thoughts.  He’d let himself wander again.  He checked the clock: it’d only been a few minutes.  He sighed in the silent emptiness of the flat.  How long did he intend to stay here in his chair, staring at the wall?

           He stayed until he was actively trying to keep himself awake.  When he was starting to lose the fight, he submitted.  He pulled his way upstairs sluggishly.  He didn’t bother changing or washing up, just pulling himself into bed and collapsing.

 

Sherlock had nearly pushed his parents away in his attempt to enter the cab.  The hugs and goodbyes seemed to never end.  In a moment of frustration he dared to look to his brother for help.  Mycroft made a passing remark about traffic and the lateness of the hour before his parents realized they’d been detaining their son.  They each gave him one last hug before they let him go.

           Sherlock said the address for the flat in a rush before he’d even closed the cab door.  As the car pulled away, his mind was a flurry of of activity.  He was trying to decide what he wanted to do.  It was already eleven in the evening and the ride would be an hour at least.  Would John be waiting for him?  Would John even be home?  He could wake him up or wait until morning to greet him.  He scratched the back of his hand, quite literally itching to return home.

           The ride was long and dreadful.  Sherlock counted every light they stopped for.  He counted the number of road signs.  He’d already told the cabbie to take the fastest route for the fourth time—this seemed to make the cabbie seek out more crowded streets deliberately.  When they finally arrived in more familiar territory, Sherlock collected his bag at his side.  He fished out several bills from his coat pocket in anticipation.

           When the cabbie pulled up to the familiar curb of 221 B, Sherlock tossed the fare at the cabbie and practically jumped out of the vehicle with his bag, slamming the door shut behind.  It was a struggle to get the keys in the lock but he managed it by some miracle.  He rushed in, locked the door, bounded up the stairs, unlocked the flat door, dropped his bag, locked the door and called out in a breathless exclamation, “John!”

           The flat was silent and still.

           Sherlock stood in place, breathing heavily and regaining his composure.  When his heart settled again, he started up the stairs toward John’s bedroom.  At the landing he saw that John’s door remained open, almost inviting him inside.  He stopped and looked into the darkness of the room.  Across the way, John lay sleeping in bed.  He was lying on top of the covers, still wearing his day clothes.  He’d been waiting.  Sherlock stepped into the room.  The digital alarm read “1:27” and Sherlock used the faint glow of its light to approach the bed.  He stopped at John’s side.  

           Beside John was the scarf Sherlock had made, still half in John’s open hand.  Also beside him was another scarf: blue and white.  Sherlock felt a warmth in his chest at the thought that John had made it for him.  He took note of the knitting loom and book on the bedside table.  He’d learned to do it just to say his thanks.

           Sherlock reached over John’s sleeping form to take the scarf.  It was hard to admire it in the poor light, but when held close enough he could see it.  Unbeknownst to him, the scarf trailed along John’s arm as he took it.  The slight stirring was enough to rouse John from his dose.  The man shifted on the bed to look up at him.

           “You were supposed to be back hours ago,” he said, unsure if he were awake.  His voice was deep and harsh with sleep.

           Sherlock started and nearly dropped the scarf.  “Oh—well, yes.  My parents made me promise to stay later than intended.”  He fidgeted with the scarf, rubbing it with his thumb.  “I see you’ve learned to knit.”

           John stared up at him, silent, still groggy.

           “It’s very nice,” Sherlock continued.  “Is it mine?”

           “Come here,” John said.

           Sherlock bent down over the bed, unsure what John meant to do.  John took the scarf and wrapped it around Sherlock’s neck.  Sherlock felt his hand accidentally brush his ear and shivered.  Avoiding John for so long had had such an effect.

           “Good.  It’s long enough then.”  He smiled weakly, completely unrefreshed by his short sleep.  “I was worried I’d been in too much of a hurry to make it the right length.”

           Sherlock nodded.  “Yes, it’s perfect,” he agreed.

           “Good.  Now shut up.”  John flopped back on the bed and closed his eyes again, fairly certain by now that he was dreaming.  Sherlock never went into his room: that was proof enough.  He still had his hands on the scarf.  When he fell against the pillow, he took Sherlock down with him.  Sherlock stumbled and caught himself with both knees on the bed, leaning over John sideways, one hand by his left shoulder and the other on his hip.

           Sherlock felt his heart beat faster in his chest.  “J-John?”

           John let go of the scarf and placed both hands on Sherlock’s shoulder.  “If I can’t have the real thing tonight, at least I can have you,” he said.

           “Have—?”  Sherlock was cut off when John pulled him fully onto the bed by his shoulders.  Sherlock felt himself drop on John’s left, the springs creaking in the bed.  He was lying on John’s bed.  Sherlock could smell him in the sheets beneath him and in the man himself, inches in front of him.  It was an overwhelming assault on his senses.  He felt as John’s right hand ran down his arm just as he’d done nights ago.  It tickled ever so slightly and it was so slow.  John’s hand came to rest on Sherlock’s hip.  Sherlock’s breath hitched as John pulled him closer on the bed.  “John...what are you doing?” he whispered.

           John shushed him quietly.  “Go to sleep.  Go to sleep and come back in the morning.”

           Sherlock finally understood.  “John, you’re not asl—”

           He stopped.  Everything stopped.  His mind shut down.  The only thing he could currently comprehend was the feeling of John’s rough lips pressed against his own.  John’s warm, gentle lips.  It was only a short kiss goodnight, but the moment lingered in his memory for minutes after it ended.  John’s legs weaved between his own and he held Sherlock on the bed beside him.  His head tucked under Sherlock’s chin, the man began to breath quietly, evenly.  He’d gone back to sleep with Sherlock in his arms.

           Sherlock wondered what John would think when he awoke to find him, fully dressed—shoes and all—in his arms.  Would he be embarrassed by the actions he thought to only be the private fantasies of a dream?  Would he let Sherlock go in the night?  If he did, would Sherlock even leave?  Would he let John believe it all to be the dream he imagined?  Or would he stay?  Judging from John’s grip, he had plenty of time to find out.


	5. The Wanted Result

Sherlock’s mind was a frenzy of different scenarios playing out as if projected on a large white screen.  Several of these had been old ideas he’d concocted whilst away alone on cases outside of London, whiles the vast majority of them were only just created in the slow, incomprehensibly close hours held tightly in the arms of John Watson.  There was an entire file hidden away under his chair cushion in secret in his mind palace filled only with the details of different greetings that awaited him upon his return.  He’d never be able to explain why he felt the need to hide files in his mind palace; nobody else would ever know they were there.  Even so, he did hide them and many more besides.  In his desk were details of John’s habits.  In the highest cupboard, just out of John’s reach, he listed his favorite foods and what he liked to drink with them, as well as accounts of all the unusual situations he’d found himself in when John decided it would be convenient to text him to fetch the milk.  The Mexican standoff in Birmingham was among his favorites.  He’d nearly got himself shot when the message tone went off.

           Now, silently, Sherlock lay reading through these very files.  He began adding to it as he went over various ideas.  He could slip out and pretend to come home in the morning, giving John the opportunity to greet him without having to acknowledge his ‘dream’ from the night.  But then there was the trouble of finding somewhere besides the stairway to the flat to sleep before morning.  He could always go to his own bed and sleep, waiting for John to find him.  No, he thought: John might be upset he didn’t seek him out.  Sleeping on the couch would imply he was too exhausted to make it to his own bed, let alone consider looking for John.

           John.  It was so warm and comfortable where he was, curled up in his arms.  He wanted to stay right there, never moving another inch away.  Was this how John felt then?  Did he love him?  Even now he was unsure, what with John’s constant rejection of and implications that he might feel anything for a member of the same sex.  It was frustrating.  Sherlock was horrified that John might recoil if he awoke and found him there.  He might start avoiding him.  It would be a terrible blow when all he wanted to do was hold him.  Would it not be best to ease into it?

           That was it, he decided.  He would ease him into it.  Sherlock waited until John’s grip loosened with sleep and slipped away carefully.  As he rearranged the scarf beside John and straightened out the crumpled sheets, sure to leave no evidence behind of his being there, he formulated a plan.  He would ease John into security.  Doubtless he would be fretting now with Sherlock’s odd behavior.  Firstly, he would have to make it clear that he would not be going anywhere again.  Secondly, as he snuck out the door, he decided to make John come to him.  He would wait for John to initiate any physical contact with him, even down to the slightest brush of his coat.  And thirdly, he made this final note as he lay himself down in his chair, he would visit John again some night.  Maybe when he next held Sherlock in his arms he might not think it all a dream.

 

The first thing Sherlock experienced the next morning was something flopping down in his face.  He awoke with a start and opened his eyes, seeing faint bits of light as if looking through a blanket.  Pulling aside the obstruction, he found himself holding the blue and white scarf from the night before.  He sat up, his neck sore from sleeping in his chair, and caught sight of John’s back as he was just reaching for the kettle.  Despite the rude awakening, he was pleased to see John wearing the scarf.

           “That’s to say thanks,” John said, his voice drifting casually out of the kitchen.  “Would’ve given it to you last night but you decided not to show.  See you haven’t unpacked yet.  Just get in now or were you sneaking in before light?”

****Sherlock’s bag was still sitting by the front door.  He shed his coat and tossed it over the armrest, taking time to stretch out and wake up.  At least partially conscious now, he rubbed his eyes and looked at the scarf as if seeing it for the first time.  “You can knit?” he asked innocently, ignoring John’s peeved tone.

           “Picked it up the other day.  Watching you do it made me curious; decided to give it a go.”  He made a bit more noise than strictly necessary, getting things together for breakfast.  If there were any doubts about John being upset with him, they were certainly cleared up now.

           “It’s very nice.”  Sherlock sniffed it deliberately, taking in John’s scent.  “Did you wash it after you finished?  It smells good.”

           John looked over his shoulder at that, turning away a little hastily.  Sherlock heard him clearing his throat quietly.  “The smell of the flat—it must be the in yarn.  You’re probably not used to it anymore now that you’ve been away for the weekend.”

           Sherlock smiled.  “That must be it.  The manor smells like old people and old books; it smells old and still.  This smells like home.”  He looked John’s way to catch his reaction.  Were his ears just the slightest shade of pink?

           “Do you want breakfast or did you just come from home and nap?  I’m making a scramble for myself.”

           “That would be fine, thank you.”

           John set to work, getting out the eggs and butter, heating up the pan and such.  While focused on his task, he didn’t notice Sherlock getting up.  Sherlock crept behind him silently until John could just feel him there.  He turned his head to look.  “Sherlock?  What are you doing?”  Sherlock was leaning up over him, reaching into one of the high cupboards over the stove.  He looked down at John with a knowing smile that made John’s heart beat faster a moment.  Then, Sherlock hid something behind his back, closing the cupboard.  John tried to take a peek at whatever it was, doing his best not to let the pan fall over the edge of the stove.  “What have you got there?”

           Sherlock turned this way and that to keep him from seeing.  “It’s nothing.  I just picked something up the other day when I went for the tea.”  He smiled wider.

           “If it’s nothing why won’t you show me?” John insisted.  “Give us a look.”

           “Not until you promise to stop being upset with me.  I’ve been behaving myself, haven’t I?  Now, I bought these specifically for a good day and decided today would be that day.  You gave me a gift so here’s one from me.  It’s never a good day when I’m in trouble with you.”

           “You’ll be in even bigger trouble with me if it’s something sick.  If you put your hands out and they’ve got some mold culture you’ve been stashing for the month I’m packing you out.”

           Sherlock gave him a withering look and sighed.  “Do you promise or not?”

           “Sure, promise.  Now would you just show me?”

           When Sherlock pulled away to fetch out the surprise, John noticed just how close they’d been standing a mere second ago.  The dramatic change in distance was overwhelming.  True to his word, Sherlock held out a box at arm’s length.  “Happy Christmas, John.”

           John looked at him, suddenly suspicious.  “It’s November, Sherlock,” he said.

           “Not according to Tesco, it’s not.”

           John turned off the burner and set the ready eggs aside, a tad overdone, before he took the box.  It was done up in last year’s holiday wrapping paper with a red ribbon.  He wondered if Sherlock had hidden away a present and only just remembered where he’d put it.  That sounded like something he would do; he was never good at holidays.  Underwhelmed, he unwrapped the box.  Inside was a new tin of biscuits, the special ones they sell at Christmas with all different kinds in.  John smiled one of his usually reserved smiles then.  “You got a full tin?” he asked, a bit of a laugh at the end.  Never had he gotten a full tin before.  Usually when a friend had one, he was offered his choice of a half-empty selection somewhere in late January when all the best had been taken.  As an adult he could easily go out and buy one, but the thought never occurred to him when he was out.  Now here he was, a full tin in late November, before most people would even consider buying them.

           “It’s yours, I saw it when I was getting tea.  They had just put out a full display of them at the end of the aisle and I grabbed the one on top.  I remembered the last time we went to Mrs Hudson’s she offered us a nearly empty tin to pick from and you looked sorely disappointed.  I happened to remember the brand and it was only a step out of my way.  So here.”  He offered the tin to John, pushing it with purpose into his hands.  In fact, he seemed very much like he would like to get away at that moment.  John noticed he seemed flustered.

           John took the tin thankfully and smiled again, hoping to let him know how thankful he was.  Sherlock nervously smiled back before retreating away to the table.  Safely across the room, Sherlock felt his heart beating in fast rhythm.  He’d started out trying to be smooth and charmingly considerate but he just ended up melting under John’s soft smiles.  If this is what the rest of this experiment would be like, he’d definitely need more distractions.  Thankfully, he had a list of things he hadn’t tried yet.

           What was the purpose of these oddly specific experiments?  Simple.  To make John  _ smile _ .  He wanted to make the very best brew of tea perfectly suited to his taste for the first experiment.  For the second, he’d made a scarf to go with his jumper.  A scarf was his own signature accessory, he knew, which is why it felt nice to see John wearing one.  Besides, it warmed him to see John wearing something he made as if it were a treasure.  Third, avoiding John.  This had mostly been to gauge whether or not he’d be missed and how John would feel.  Sherlock laughed to himself; clearly he had gotten a wonderful reaction.  The biscuits had made a nice little back-up.  Sherlock had expected John to greet him with his smile.  A scarf was good, remarkable even, but it had come with John’s scorn.  Sherlock had planned to unveil the tin later some cozy evening when it snowed, but he wanted his smile after being away so long.

           Now he had other ideas to try.  Just this morning he’d seen from the way John wore his scarf that he’d been smelling it when he thought Sherlock wouldn’t notice.  Honestly, when would John learn that he always noticed?  He decided to give it a try, perhaps later on in his great experiment when the risk was not so high.  When John took a shower some evening, he’d switch one of his pillows out with one of his own to see his reaction.  John would get to fall asleep breathing him in and, as an added bonus, Sherlock would as well.  And now that he’d been holding on to his jumper all weekend he was sure it wouldn’t smell like John anymore.  He’d have to catch John smelling it when he gave it back later.  Or maybe he’d hold onto it a little while longer…

           Sherlock was drawn out of these thoughts when he heard the clatter of a plate being set before him.  He blinked and saw that John had just set the table and was seating himself across the way.

           “Have yourself a bit of a daydream?” John asked.

           Sherlock smiled a secretive little smile, just for himself.  "Yes, John," he said.  And what a daydream it would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have such plans. Such big plans.


End file.
